


Finding Home

by yodasyoyo



Series: Tumblr fics [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: CUTE SAPPY SHIT BASICALLY, Clothes Sharing, Comfort, Cuddling, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, I apologize in advance, M/M, Sharing Clothes, although technically it starts out as clothes stealing, the fluff called to me like a siren and I was powerless to resist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 00:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: Derek goes from sleepy to awake in about 0.2 seconds flat. He sits up immediately, eyes wide, to find Scott’s standing by the bed, looking at him kind of strangely. But the real problem, the bane of Derek’s life, the stone in his shoe, the beautiful, terrible, pain in his ass, is standing by the window with his perfect pink mouth hanging open in shock.“That’s my shirt,” Stiles says again.Derek grabs his comforter and clutches it to his chest like a repressed maiden in a cheesy romance novel. “No.”“It is. Why are you wearing my shirt? Why are you sleeping in my shirt?”





	Finding Home

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a [prompt](https://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/post/180678638789/beaconchills-scott-and-stiles-barging-in-the/) on tumblr and decided I needed to write it.

_Amazing artwork by[Benaya-trash](http://benaya-trash.tumblr.com/)_

In Derek’s defense it’s been a real long week followed by an extremely long night. Fucking witches have set up camp in the preserve, and are making trouble. He and Scott had been out till three trying to track them without success. 

They had some way of masking their scent, that had to be what it was.

Anyways, Stiles and Lydia were looking into it.

By the time they’d finally given up for the night, Derek had staggered home and forced himself to brush his teeth, even though he could barely keeps his eyes open. He shuffled over to his bed like a zombie, looking for nothing more than the comforting scent of home. He hadn’t thought much about anything, just collapsed onto the king size bed in his boxers and a tee, and let sleep take him.

So of course, of _course_ , the next thing he’s aware of is the door to the loft being thrown open and someone saying, “Dude, come on. We texted you like a million times already.”

Somehow Derek manages to lift his head, blink blearily, eyes crusted, mind still foggy with sleep. “Wha—” he manages.

Someone, somewhere, throws open a curtain, and sunlight streams in. “I said, we texted you a million times–wait, what the fuck? Is that my shirt?”

Derek goes from sleepy to awake in about 0.2 seconds flat. He sits up immediately, eyes wide, to find Scott’s standing by the bed, looking at him kind of strangely. But the real problem, the bane of Derek’s life, the stone in his shoe, the beautiful, terrible, pain in his ass, is standing by the window with his perfect pink mouth hanging open in shock.

“That’s my shirt,” Stiles says again.

Derek grabs his comforter and clutches it to his chest like a repressed maiden in a cheesy romance novel. “No.”

“It is. Why are you wearing my shirt? Why are you _sleeping_ in my shirt?”

“It isn’t—”

“It fucking is. It’s my stud muffin tee. I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”

“Two people can own similar shirts,” Derek says.

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re saying you went out and bought a stud muffin t-shirt. You.”

Derek shrugs. Maybe if he keeps his answers vague and noncommittal neither of them will realize that he’s lying his ass off. “Is it that surprising?”

“You,” Stiles says. “In a graphic tee? Yeah. It’s pretty surprising. I thought you stuck to dark neutral colors and jeans that made your balls beg for mercy. It’s basically your official uniform. Bright blue and yellow, not so much.”

Vague and noncommittal is clearly a useless tactic. Derek goes back to outright denial. “It’s my shirt.”

All this time Scott has been looking between them, but now his nostrils flare slightly. Derek sees his eyes widen in realization, and feels his own shoulders slump. Scott’ll be able to smell the truth, Derek hasn’t washed this shirt since he broke into Stiles room and took it from over the back of Stiles’ chair about a week ago.

“Two people can have the same shirt, Stiles,” Scott says, eyes fixed on Derek. “Geeze. Let the guy live.”

All Derek’s breath whooshes out of his lungs in unexpected relief. He wants to kiss Scott right now. Well, actually he really really doesn’t. Scott is— absolutely not who Derek wants to kiss. But maybe he’ll buy him a fruit basket, or that new computer game he’s been talking about.

“But—” The jut of Stiles’ chin is mulish.

“Lydia and Stiles worked out how to track the witches,” Scott says to Derek hurriedly, cutting Stiles off. “We need you come back out to the preserve so we can find them and deal with them.”

“Right,” Derek says, taking this conversational liferaft and clinging to it with everything he has. “I’ll get dressed.”

“In your own clothes?” Stiles says snippily. “Or—”

“Maybe we’ll wait in the Jeep,” Scott says decisively. “Give you your privacy.”

“But—” Stiles says, glaring at Scott. They have some kind of silent argument, and then Stiles’ shoulders slump. “Fine,” he says. “But I know that’s my shirt. I got that spaghetti sauce stain on it last week.”

Derek can still hear Stiles muttering about it as they leave his loft and trail down the hall together.

When he’s sure they’re out of earshot he lets his head fall into his hands and allows himself exactly two minutes to panic.

He’s so fucking busted.

-

So here’s the truth. For the longest time after the death of his family, Derek stopped sleeping properly. Two or three hours a night, that’s all he’d ever been able to manage. Four, maybe, if he was really exhausted. Here’s another truth: For the last six months Derek may or may not have been breaking into Stiles’ room to steal a shirt on a weekly basis. He only ever keeps them for a week until Stiles’ scent starts to fade. Always returns them. And, for the most part, he doesn’t think Stiles has realized.

It all started when Stiles left a t-shirt at Derek’s house one night after a pack meeting. There’d been an incident with a can of soda and Stiles had had to change out of his I Support Single Mom’s tee and borrow one of Derek’s henleys. He’d left his t-shirt over the back of the couch by mistake, and after they’d all gone home, Derek had managed to fall asleep on that same couch.

When he’d woken up the next morning he was curled in a ball with Stiles’ tee clutched to his chest. It was the best night’s sleep he’d had in years.  
  
At first he’d figured it was just a coincidence, but the following night after tossing and turning restlessly in his bed, he’d given in and worn it, and slept for twelve hours straight.

For a week after that before Stiles remembered to come round and collect it, he wore the shirt every night and slept soundly. The first night after Stiles had taken it back Derek lay in bed wide awake, fingers plucking restlessly at the sheets.

So.

He told himself he couldn’t just not sleep. He had to do something— but there was no way he was ever going to be able to explain himself, so the following day he’d kinda, sorta waited till Stiles and the Sheriff were out and made his move.

But that’s all it is, ok? It’s an aid to sleep. Something about Stiles’ scent is– comforting. Derek isn’t using it to get off or anything like that. He just– borrows a shirt once a week so that he can sleep, and then returns it. That’s all.

It isn’t— It isn’t weird. Or creepy. Or anything.

Probably.

-

The whole drive out to the preserve Scott doggedly and single-handedly keeps the conversation going while Stiles drives in stony silence, shooting Derek the occasional long, considering look. Mercifully, though, he doesn’t bring it up again.

They deal with the witches. Manage to track them down and negotiate a treaty with minimal fuss.

It’s only on the way back that things get really awkward again.

“I’m gonna drop you back at your place,” Stiles says to Scott firmly. “Then I’ll take Derek home.”

“Uhh—” Scott glances between them. “I— Maybe–”

“It’s fine,” Derek says. He knows Stiles well enough now to realize that there’s no way he’s gonna let this go.

They are going to have a really awkward and potentially friendship ruining conversation, so Derek may as well get it over with.

Rip it off quick.

Like a band aid.

-

Stiles doesn’t say anything after they’ve dropped Scott off, instead he maintains an eerie silence the entire drive from Scott’s house to Derek’s loft. Once he’s parked up outside Derek’s building though, he fixes Derek with a piercing stare and says, “We’re going to talk.”

“Fine,” Derek says, “I guess you better come up.”

So Stiles follows him up the stairs, because the elevator in Derek’s building is broken again, and all the way to his loft.

When he unlocks the door and lets Stiles in, Derek figures he just has to be honest. Stiles knows. Derek knows Stiles knows. And most importantly, Stiles knows Derek knows Stiles knows.

He opens his mouth to say something, but finds he doesn’t have the words, so shuts it again. Figures he’ll let Stiles lead the conversation, let him get whatever he wants to say out of his system. Shout or scream or ridicule. Whatever it is, Derek can take it. He probably deserves it.

So he stands there in the loft, arms folded over his chest, not quite able to bring himself to look directly at Stiles, but following his movements all the same.

Stiles doesn’t say anything at first, just walks the perimeter of the loft, with his hands clasped behind his back, a slow measured pace, taking everything in. The spartan furniture. The hole in the wall. The large lonely bed in the centre of the room.

All Derek can do is watch him and try to stave off the feeling of panic that’s rising in his chest. Eventually, Stiles makes his way to the bed and picks up the old, blue Stud Muffin shirt. He holds it loosely in his hands and finally looks at Derek.

“This is my shirt,” he says evenly.

Derek can’t deny it. Just nods.

“Hmmm.” Stiles takes in a deep breath. “Fine.”

With that he puts the tee back down on Derek’s bed and then, in the next moment, begins to peel off his plaid shirt, and then the Jawsome tee that’s under it.

“Stiles, what are you—” There’s pale, mole speckled skin and sinewy muscle everywhere. Derek blinks rapidly, completely unsure what is happening.

“Here,” Stiles says, throwing the Jawsome tee at Derek, who catches it on reflex. “You can return that to me in a few days and I’ll give you a different one.”

“B-But— what?”

“No breaking into my room to steal my stuff anymore like a giant creeper.” Reaching out Stiles picks the old Stud Muffin tee from the bed and tugs it over his head, pulling it down.

“I–uh–Ok?”

“Ok.” Stiles nods. He tugs on his plaid shirt, and steps forward, closing the distance between them. Stopping about a foot away he stares at Derek, that obstinate tilt to his chin, arms hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes are bright brown, flecked with gold, and his hair is tousled. He smells clean, and fresh, and warm. He smells safe. He smells like home.

Before now Derek hasn’t had a home in a long while. Not really.

“Thank-you,” Derek says.

Stiles smirks a little, but his eyes are kind, more than kind. Fond. He lifts his arms out a little, open and waiting, and Derek recognizes it for what it is, steps forward into the longest, most bone crushing hug he’s had in years. Feels Stiles’ arms go tight around him, holding him in, close, protecting him. He buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder and breathes the scent of him in deep.

“That’s ok,” Stiles says. “Any time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. I'm really sorry. So sappy. There's no excuse. 
> 
> I am on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/)


End file.
